A horn blared in the street, and she half-listened to René, who went on and on about serial-killer signature styles over the canned hold music. Her feet hurt. “Your point, René?”
“We’re dealing with a pedophile, probably of arrested sexual development, who rapes twelve-year-old girls,” he said. “Say the rapist’s using the chaos of the World Cup crowds, the Fête de la Musique and the disconnect within the Commissariat branches as a cover for his activities. Say he’s an insider.”
“Like one needs to be an insider to know the forces don’t cooperate?” she said. “Try paying a parking ticket and you discover that.”
“There’s always more to it, Aimée.”
A voice came on the line. “Direct inquiries and messages for Commissaire Morbier to extension two-zero-four, s’il vous pla?t.”
Gone on leave. The flic at Sylvaine’s had been right. Worse yet, he’d not told her. Whenever she needed Morbier, he became elusive. They had a problematic relationship—at best. He’d neglected to mention his plans when he’d taken her for lunch last week—a pretext, she’d discovered, for hounding her to register for Lamaze classes over the lobster terrine.
She pictured his napkin tucked under his chin and spread across the front of his brown corduroy jacket, his age-spotted hands working the silver cheese knife.
“Pwah, Leduc,” he’d said, snapping his fingers for l’addition. He took a last swig of Kir Royale and pulled out his pack of Gauloises. “Aah non, secondhand smoke, c’est interdit au bébé.”
Champagne and cigarettes, the two things she missed most.
“I hope you read those baby books I gave you and have given some thought to a name.”
“What’s the hurry?” She sipped an express décaféiné and clenched her other fist. For two centimes she’d rip that cigarette packet from his pocket. Take just one puff.
“Have you signed up for that cooking class yet?” He peered down at the bill through his readers, the bags under his eyes darker than usual. Slapped some francs on the tablecloth. Only enough for a tip. She hated how they’d dined off his reputation. Or maybe the waiter was his informer.
“Tell Franck délicieux, comme toujours.”
“Oui, Commissaire.” The waiter bowed and slipped the wad in his pocket.
“You’ll get nailed for doing that one day, Morbier,” she said.
His drooping basset-hound eyes narrowed. “Leduc, I hope you’ve redeemed the coupon for Maman et Moi yoga sessions that Jeanne recommended.”
Jeanne, his former grief counselor, now his new squeeze. Like two mother hens.
“Have you told Melac yet?”
With a suicidal ex-wife and his daughter in a coma? Tell him as he camped by her hospital bed in Brittany? She kept putting off returning his calls.
“That’s my business, Morbier.”
“Still haven’t, eh? He’s the father of your child, Leduc,” he’d chided.
A rumble of thunder, crack of lighting brought her back to Pigalle, the heavy evening air. Oppressive, like in that horrific bedroom on rue de Rochechouart. Zazie. She had to find Zazie.
“Earth to Aimée,” René said. “Call your hormones to order. Did you hear me? I said this all seems similar to the Guy Georges case—a rapist who goes for a specific type. They’re secretive, lead hidden lives.”
She shuddered. “René, I saw poor Sylvaine. Her mother lashed out at me, so terrified, so full of shame her daughter would be seen that way. So helpless. So sad.”
“Of course, it’s affected you,” René said. “I’m sorry.”
“Because I’m pregnant? It would sicken anyone. An innocent child, broken and violated. Dead. And I’m afraid for Zazie.”
René grimaced. “What about Zazie’s friends, her classmates who might know where she went? Aren’t the flics putting out a net?”
Aimée gave him more details. “Virginie’s calling everyone. The Brigade des Mineurs will search for her—as a witness, not as a missing person.”
“What’s this?” He gestured to the file sticking out of her bag.
“Zazie’s ‘report.’ ”
“How she trailed the rapist?” René shook his head. “Trying to be a detective.”
“My fault, René. I should have stopped her.”
“Stop a thirteen-year-old? Impossible.” René shook his head. “She’s like you. When you get something in your head, a tank won’t stop you.”
The sky opened up. René jumped into the car.
“Where’s your police scanner?” She’d given him one for his birthday a few years ago.
René hooked up the console wires under his dashboard and flicked the scanner on. Static and intermittent bursts of conversation accompanied the thwack of the windshield wipers. René switched on the interior light as Aimée moved the passenger seat back and spread the newspaper clippings and Zazie’s scrawled notes out on the leather dashboard.
Zazie had clipped articles from Le Parisien’s faits divers section. In the past six months there had been two attacks on young girls, each twelve years old. The girls attended the Lycée-Collège Lamartine and Collège-Lycée Jules-Ferry, both located in the ninth arrondissement. The attacks showed similar modi operandi. After returning home from school alone, the victims were bound and gagged; unable to call for help, they were left undiscovered for several hours until family members returned.
“Parents let their kids go home alone that young?” René shook his head.
Get real, she almost said. Instead she made a mental note to sign her child up for after-school programs.
“I did. From the time I was eight.”
Since the day she returned from school on a rainy March afternoon to an empty apartment. Her American mother had packed up all her things. Left and never come back.
Aimée shivered. Made herself continue reading. “Look here. Discovered blindfolded, mouths taped and tied up.”
None of the victims had been able to identify or describe the attacker. No more details.
“I saw duct tape on the floor by Sylvaine,” she said, suppressing a shudder.